


This Gray Spirit Yearning

by icepixie



Series: Increments [1]
Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icepixie/pseuds/icepixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For some time now, she's been his favorite subject to observe, to collect and file away facts and impressions of, sorting through them and piecing them together, puzzle-like, in daydreams and idle moments—not that he would ever admit it.  Those are hardly the kind of thoughts a junior officer should be having about his superior."</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Gray Spirit Yearning

_And this gray spirit yearning in desire  
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,  
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. – Tennyson, "Ulysses"_

  
He's always prided himself on his observational skills, on his ability to logically deduce a conclusion from evidence collected. Perhaps it's something borne of living with two librarians for so long, this innate skill of cataloging and organizing information, fitting disparate pieces together into a coherent system.

For some time now, she's been his favorite subject to observe, to collect and file away facts and impressions of, sorting through them and piecing them together, puzzle-like, in daydreams and idle moments—not that he would ever admit it. Those are hardly the kind of thoughts a junior officer should be having about his superior.

But he goes on thinking them just the same.

From the dossier which accompanied the official communique from Ottawa explaining that she would be replacing Inspector Moffat, he learned that she is eighteen months younger than him, and graduated from Depot in the third class after his. By the time she arrived in Regina, he was at his second posting, in the small town of Fort Clery near the northern edge of the Yukon Territory.

(He wonders sometimes if their lives might be different now, had they met then.)

From that same dossier, he learned that her middle name is Catherine, but it wasn't until he overheard Constable Turnbull asking if she were a relation of the former Prime Minister that he thought to wonder if that's why she never goes by her given name, or if "Meg" was chosen (or bestowed) earlier. Incidentally, as she informed Turnbull with what he could positively hear was a roll of her eyes, she shares no traceable blood connection with the British Thatcher.

He's noticed that despite the business suits and cosmetics she wears, she keeps her nails short and free of polish, as if to demonstrate that the trappings of an administrator notwithstanding, she is still a field officer, ready to use her small but strong hands in pursuit of justice. He's seen her take apart, clean, and re-assemble a service weapon almost faster than he does, her hands moving surely and efficiently over the metal.

(Since none of them are allowed to discharge a gun in the United States, three months ago they all had to journey to an RCMP station just over the border to put in the several hours at the shooting range required to keep their qualifications up to date—yes, even Turnbull, who caused them to share several anxious glances until he finally completed his quals without injury to himself or anyone else. She is an excellent shot, he'd noted; rarely did her rounds stray even an inch from the absolute center of the paper targets.)

He's also seen that—more often than not—once he finishes explaining his latest unorthodox exercise in law enforcement, the briefest of smiles crosses her mouth before she reprimands him for involving himself in affairs that have no bearing on Canadian interests. It is that smile, more than anything, that keeps him from resenting the petty errands she sometimes sends him on, and the hours of sentry duty she's made him stand. He knows that his need to help people causes her not-inconsiderable trouble with her superiors in Ottawa, and probably quite a bit of extra paperwork. He's grateful that she has never demanded he give it up entirely. Though he was surprised when, bare weeks after she arrived, she accurately assessed his reason for not wanting to take the transfer she offered him, since working with her to aid Lyndon Buxley he's begun to think that she knew what he was going to say because somewhere inside her, she wants the same thing.

When he tries to pin down the first moment he started wanting to discover the person behind her walls of rank and protocol, he usually finds himself thinking about that moment.

She is brave, he knows with iron certainty; the awards for fieldwork on her wall which constellate around her commission to the rank of Inspector would say as much, even if he didn't have first-hand experience of it after working with her to capture Randall Bolt, Mr. Buxley's bookies, and other criminals. And he knows that her courage exists in spite of, not in place of, fear; he saw how uncomfortable Henri Cloutier made her, and he knows that she will likely suffer some kind of personal repercussion for telling him off. (It is unfair, the way patronage works in the upper echelons of their organization, but despite his best efforts, the world remains unfair.) He's sure she would do it again, though, despite the consequences.

He likes the comfort of being certain, of knowing that everything adds up to a single inevitable conclusion. It's what makes him such a thorough investigator. He used to think that people were like cases: if you sorted the evidence just right, you could understand what makes another person tick. You could _know_ them.

He thought he knew Victoria, after their thirty-seven hours together in Fortitude Pass. He'd been wrong.

Now he wonders if the gulf between one person and another is simply too wide to ever be crossed. If everyone is a solitary iceberg upon the sea, nine-tenths of themselves hidden below the water. If he ever _could_ know Meg Thatcher, even if he spent his life trying.

Perhaps not. But there is still beauty in the attempt.

Infrequent conversation has given him further opportunities to add to his mental catalog of observations. He learned while standing next to her at a Remembrance Day parade (Veterans' Day, they call it here) that one of her grandfathers had served in the First World War, where he met her grandmother, a Red Cross nurse. At a reception for the Russian ambassador, she let slip, somewhat wistfully, that she's always wanted to see St. Petersburg. In his office one winter afternoon, she reminisced about having snowball fights with her doting father, who loved nothing more than to spend time with his only child. (He'd almost let the sharp, hot rush of envy he felt show on his face, but managed to school it away just in time.)

And there is, of course, everything he learned about her on the train. That her scent, which is hers alone, is something he can't quite define but which reminds him of a northern variety of honeysuckle. That the uniform, shorthanding as it does the capabilities and ideals she holds as a Mountie, _suits_ her so exactly that it leaves him breathless. That she kisses fearlessly.

He'd been able, over the previous eight months, to keep most of his questions about her at bay. He craves knowledge—facts, understanding, inferences, deductions, the things his grandparents taught him to value above all else—but he had pushed aside the desire to ferret out more about her, contenting himself with what she was willing to give. But the kiss undid him. Now he burns with questions; he wants to know a million other things about her. Her favorite book. How she spent childhood summers. When she took up softball. What her skin tastes like at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. What her hands would feel like on his chest. Whether she prefers eggs or pancakes for breakfast on sleepy Sunday mornings, and what section of the newspaper she reaches for first.

"Fraser," she says.

Guiltily, he snaps his gaze to his office doorway, where she stands, looking imperious. She's caught him staring out the window, thinking about her, when his mind should be on filling out his 4816M report. Belatedly remembering protocol, he thrusts himself out of his chair and stands at attention. (He's finally reached a point where he doesn't walk into his desk every time she addresses him, for which his knees are thankful.)

"I found a stowaway in my office," she says, and, wonder of wonders, she smiles as she hauls Diefenbaker forward by his collar. "He couldn't help revealing himself when I unwrapped my granola bar."

Dief whines at that, complaining about her choice of snack food. Not a good enough sugar-to-grain ratio, apparently, though it hadn't stopped him from begging for a bite.

Although she doesn't seem angry, he swiftly attempts to make amends. "I apologize for his behavior, sir. He knows better than to bother people who are _very busy_ "—he emphasizes that for Dief's benefit—"when he wants some of their food."

"It's all right," she says as Dief slinks over to his desk. "He actually reminded me of something I've been meaning to ask you. When you were in Regina, did you ever go to Kosta's?"

Kosta's Restaurant is an institution among RCMP cadets, serving as it does the unique combination of northern game meat cooked Greek-style, in dishes such as moose gyros and caribou moussaka. One can't escape trying it at least once, even if one comes from a place where using these animals as food is not particularly exotic. "Occasionally," he says, wondering what brought on her question, but thrilled that they share this common reference point.

"I saw a diner a few blocks away advertising moose souvlaki. I'm sure it won't be the same, but I thought...you might like to try it?"

His eyes widen. Is she really asking...?

Her eyes go wide as well as she realizes the implications of her request. Quickly papering over the personal with reference to the professional, she says, "We still have to go over the details for the Argentinian ambassador's reception. It would be a working lunch, of course."

The sheer glee in his smile is perhaps not entirely appropriate for the prospect of a working lunch with his commanding officer, but he can't quite contain it. "I'd like that."

"You would?" she asks. He nods. "Oh. Well. Good." She stands there for a moment, looking just a little pleased with herself, before stepping back into the hall. "I'll just get my things."

She disappears, and he takes his brown tunic off the chair. He has no illusions that the events of the next hour will somehow overcome all the distance their ranks and their duty put between them. (He would yield anything about himself to her inquiry, if she would only ask, but she can't, he understands.) But if the conversation happens to track just the right way, he might get the chance to ask one or two of the thousands of questions he wants to ask her, to strive and seek to know her just a little better than he did before.


End file.
